


Silence.

by PrismaticDelight



Category: Original Work, The Amberwood Series
Genre: Gen, something i needed to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrismaticDelight/pseuds/PrismaticDelight
Summary: Please be cautious as I am giving a possible trigger warning. Knives are mentioned here but not quite used, however, I understand why it may be sensitive. It's a sort of...venting into my writing. I needed to get it out, so, I hope this is okay. It helped me explore Nyx a little more too. Apologies for any errors they may be here.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be cautious as I am giving a possible trigger warning. Knives are mentioned here but not quite used, however, I understand why it may be sensitive. It's a sort of...venting into my writing. I needed to get it out, so, I hope this is okay. It helped me explore Nyx a little more too. Apologies for any errors they may be here.

Make it stop.

_You can’t._

Why not?

_Because you’re weak._

What if I was stronger?

_You will never be strong, child. You will forever be worthless—_

Nyx presses his hands to his ears as hard as he can. It never helps but if he keeps trying, maybe it will someday. He curls into himself even more. Toes curl and hook around each other and he digs his forehead against his knees. “Leave me alone…” the boy whispers into his thighs, “Just go away.” Yet the whispers persist. They linger in every corner and crevice. The shadows seem to stretch along the plain white walls of his bedroom, threatening to loom.

He’s lived here for a year and his room is still so bare. It’s clear that it’s a guest room with the empty closet, a dresser full of clothes Leslie and Carter bought for him, despite him saying he didn’t want anything. Two nondescript nightstands flank the bed with dull lamps. A bed set of wine red and gold filigree design lay out beneath him from comforter to decorative pillows he feels guilty for wanting to take off. He hates it. Nyx loathes red. To touch it burns his eyes. To acknowledge it makes him want to scream.

_“Everything we did was for you… Why did you resist?”_

Because it hurt. _So much_. There will never be a pain to rival what he went through. “Liar…”

_“We never lied, child. You listened to only what you wanted.”_

He tries to dig his palms into his ears as his eyes squeeze shut. The stupid voices continue. They’ve been persistent since he got here. What made it worse was that it didn’t have to be silent. They came and went as they pleased. Not even music could drown them out.

Sometimes they yell at him.

Sometimes they whisper in his ear as he tries to sleep.

Sometimes they try to drag him away.

Every day, every night, every hour. They don’t stop. Nyx curses under his breath. The realization is always the same. He’s heard of “therapy” but he doesn’t want to talk to someone pretending to know what he’s feeling, to diagnose him. Nothing is wrong with him. He isn’t out of tune or something to be fixed. He’s fine. He’s always been.

Yet… the voices remain.

So, he sits there hunched over his lap with covered ears, as he’s done last night. And the night before. And the night before that—

Suddenly, his head snaps up out of his hands, eyes alight in the darkness. Why hasn’t he thought of this sooner? A way to stop the voices. He’s figured it out, or at least he hopes he has.

Nyx scrambles off the bed, light as a feather when crossing the room to open his door and stride into the hall. He pointedly ignores the trailing whispers now that this idea has come to the forefront. It gives him this energy he didn’t know he had.

It puts a bounce in his step.

Downstairs, he takes himself into the kitchen and flicks on the light to be temporarily blinded. Once his eyes adjust, Nyx beelines to a drawer. Third from the fridge, painted white for some reason. The rest are left in their natural wood. Wiggling it open, he grabs at random.

He’s never held one, mind you. He’s seen Leslie use it a thousand times so confidently like chefs on TV. Carter is pretty good with one too. But the knife feels heavy in his hand. The blade unusually large up close and personal. He sticks his tongue out at his reflection.

Nyx knows this will hurt like a son of a gun. There isn’t really a quick way to do this. Leslie sharpens them often, otherwise something like a tomato just smooshes under the slightest pressure. It makes him smile inside watching the seeds gush out.

He wonders if his ears would do the same. Or if they’re sturdy like cucumbers. Such a bland vegetable. It tastes like nothing.

He takes a breath, gripping tight and firm with one hand… while the other tugs at his ear. If he does this close to his head, it shouldn’t smoosh like a tomato. Maybe it’d be faster. Maybe he could simply swing down.

The voices are incoherent but loud all around. The boy figures they must be insulting or encouraging him. It won’t matter once this is done. It won’t matter because he won’t hear them anymore.

Another breath, deeper this time, is taken to ready himself. There’s no time like the present, right? Nyx lifts his arm, preparing the knife and imagining the motions. What’s the best way to do this? Should he do it at all? Yes—he should, lest he go insane. Assuming he hasn’t already. It takes a certain mindset to fathom something like this.

Nyx brings his hand up in motion to take the razor-sharp blade down, bracing himself for the agony he knows will come.

… But it never does.

Someone shouts his name. Was it a real voice? He can’t always tell the difference.

Then a person throws their arms around his small, lithe body; the knife snatched from his hand at the same time another pair of arms wrap themselves from his other side. He blinks. The sounds are distant. However, he smells vanilla. Like Leslie’s shampoo.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Leslie exclaims loud enough to make his ears ring.

“God, you should’ve come to us—” Carter says, further smothering him in his beefy arms. His hand alone is the size of Nyx’s head. He peeks past his shoulder, seeing the light bounce off the blade of the knife which lays well out of reach on the floor.

Trapped in the arms of the two adults, Nyx drags his eyes back towards the kitchen entrance where he finds you.

A person smaller, younger than himself. There’s bewilderment, confusion, curiosity, fear all on that face. Nyx wonders why, but then looks away and tries to hide between the two heads.

“… I’m… sorry,” he whispers, unsure of what he could say to rectify this.

Leslie and Carter pull away and make sure he hasn’t hurt himself in some way already. Carter finds a patch of tender skin at the nape of his neck. Nyx has scratched himself raw at one point already. “What were you thinking?” Leslie hisses.

His head ducks down, “I-I just wanted it to be quiet… that’s all.” He whispers. A hand scratches his wrist, something Carter notices and this grabs his hands are gently as he can.

“By _cutting off_ your ears?” The man frowns, searching Nyx’s eyes. “You may not believe it, but we’re here for you. You can tell us literally anything.”

“That includes what you’re going through,” Leslie adds in a whisper this time. Her hand is gentle too when gingerly brushing her fingertips along his ear Nyx was seconds away from trying to remove.

He recoils from them both and tugs his hands back to himself. He says nothing. Instead, he stares at the space between them, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Your parents' exchange nervous looks yet they know not to push too hard too soon.

And you stand there watching, listening. The boy doesn’t talk a lot. He’s often in his room unless to eat or shower. You find it weird how fast he cleans up. He doesn’t even take five minutes. Seeing this turns the gears in your otherwise sleeping mind. An idea of your own forms. One you don’t know if he’d like, but it’s one you’re willing to try, anyway.

So, come tomorrow morning, you leave a small box outside his door. He wakes up early, but never comes out until your parents call him for breakfast. Dad is making pancakes and you have to make your request before they use all the batter up. Not that buttermilk isn’t fantastic… just that you want something special sometimes.

When Carter does eventually call for the boy, Nyx is hesitant to get out of bed, much less open the door. He nearly trips over the box when he does come out, though. A beige box with a white ribbon tied around it. Well… tied is a strong word. Let’s just say there was an attempt.

Scrunching his nose, Nyx picks it up, slipping the ribbon off and popping the box open. Inside was a pair of pale pink earmuffs. They look rather cute. Although pink is a gross color, he can tolerate this shade. A small piece of paper on the bottom reads _TO: NYX_ in awful handwriting. No way this came from Carter or Leslie. Their handwriting is much neater. He’s never tried earmuffs before, and it can’t be any worse than trying to cut his ear off….

Which is why, that morning when Nyx comes downs to the table, you find him wearing the earmuffs.

You can’t help but stare.

He turns his gaze to you.

And something unusual happens.

A tiny smile curls his lips.


End file.
